


Colors to Dream in

by the_authors_exploits



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Brief mentions of torture/violence, Dreamwalking, Gen, Protective Tim, vague/poetic imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: Tim's sleep is as busy as his waking hours





	Colors to Dream in

The shimmering silver moon shines down upon the darkened world, casting shadows and illuminating what it can. Tendrils of light find their way through an open window, wind working in tandem to create a fantastical scene, blowing aside the thin curtain for the light to dance upon the sleeping visage; the white fringe, the scarred biceps, the gentle rise and fall of his chest…

A sleeping man, more boy, eased to sleep by a hooting owl and the caress of the breeze as the night wore on; yet, the night will not bring peace. It is no gift giver, and tonight the moon may shine upon his room but it does not shine upon his dreams.

Tim sleeps in varying shades of darkness and gray, splatters of color that he paints with to create mosaics of joy; passing images of comfort at his fingertips, barely touching them within the stream of stars. Sometimes, however, his feet touch upon the darkness and he’s privy to the monsters in people’s souls; it’s both disturbing and somehow comforting, for he can better pull them away from the brink.

His sleep is never quite restful, always some dream to weave or terror to untangle; and tonight it is no different. Damian sleeps mostly easy, small fears that all children have, nothing enough to cause Tim alarm; Dick and Bruce also rest deeply, no images upon their mindscape, and within the city is a few terrors that Tim boxes away easily.

He doesn’t touch his older brother until late into the night, and it’s a mistake to have waited so long; but Jason is observant, restless and suspicious even in sleep, easily disturbed when meddled upon, so Tim stays away. There is a pull most nights; heavy dregs of trauma that seem possible to permeate other dreamscapes too, and Tim fights it the best he can from afar.

It’s too much to ignore tonight, and Tim floats amidst chaos before he finds purchase; kneeling on a roiling red ground, he waits for the scene to focus in. Sounds are always there, however, mewls and whimpers and shrieking screams; something snapping, something whipping… Simple enough is the view; a twisted monster hurling hurt at a crumpled boy, leather jacket doing nothing to protect him, and Tim stands immediately.

He visited Jason once before, amongst stormy weather and images soaring so quick it was painful to watch; his mind is never at ease, but the swirling mass doesn’t deter Tim. He walks with ease through the blowing dust and grime; he places himself with his back to the painted monster. He does not fear; he has not feared in some time. Immunity to Scarecrow’s toxin is further proof; so he stands firmly, awaiting Jason to acknowledge his presence.

“Backhand!” The crowbar swings, swishes through Tim’s astral being, and smashes against Jason’s body. “Forehand?”

Jason screams; he tries to scrabble away but there is nowhere to go and his arms cannot support him. He curls against himself and cries out.

“Jason,” Tim interrupts the rambling maniac. “Open your eyes.”

He shakes his head, cringes as another hit finds its mark, and Tim goes to his knee; he reaches out and grips Jason’s chin, lifts his head.

“This isn’t real; it’s dust and pulses. It’s malleable, it’s yours.” Tim surges forward when another hit lands through his projection; he presses his brow to Jason’s, and they shut their eyes together, a drop slipping from Jason’s. “A universe at your fingertips, Jason, stars for you to name; name them.”

The next swing falls through both of them; the cackling fades away as the ghost is forgotten. Jason relaxes, the bruises disappearing and the wounds healing; he breathes out a sigh as the tension drains. Tim lays him down, and there is sand beneath his feet as he stands. Somewhere behind him is Starfire’s ship, and she rises from the water in a kaleidoscope of shimmering diamonds; a pressure in Jason’s hand, though the archer hasn’t been molded, and Tim retreats away to reality.

He wakes in his room, less austure than the dreamland he walks, but comforting all the same; there is a brilliant wind tonight, a chill upon the air, and he swings his legs to the floor, stands, exits to the hallway. Jason’s room is just a door down the hall, and Tim twists the handle silently, swings it open silently, steps barely in to peer around the frame.

His brother sleeps, the sheets a wreck and his window flung wide open, but he sleeps peacefully now; Tim crosses to close it, glancing up to the moon. He wonders briefly why she is unkind to those who suffer the most, but upon receiving no answer he stops searching; he gives his brother one last check before returning to his room. There, he lays beneath the covers and waits for sleep to return.

His job is not complete for the night; it will be the first time he brings doom but it will be easier than fighting it. Hope is always hard to conjure, harder to hold onto, but destruction? As easy as breathing…

When he opens his eyes, he is faced with a man; ghastly white with a crazed grin and wispy chuckles that scrape like nails on a chalkboard. His dreamscape is white and clear, calm and deadened, nothing to do but taint it however Tim wishes.

“I am creative,” he warns, but the clown merrily laughs harder.


End file.
